


God's Never in France, This Time of Year

by 27dragons, tisfan



Series: MCU Kink Bingo [24]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (if you squint hard), (sort of), Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Prison, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Canon Disabled Character, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, POW Bucky, Public Humiliation, Self Confidence Issues, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Whipping, honestly, muddled up history, not historically accurate, not in the fun way, we're not really sure what the time period is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:38:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: When Tony finds out that his partner is the one who sold Stark weapons the enemy, he’s framed for treason and sent to live out his days in the notorious Chateau d’If. Bucky, who lost both his arm and his unit to those same weapons, is more than happy to assist in the torture of the man who caused him so much pain... until he finds out his assumptions were wrong and his world is upended. Now he is making amends the only way he knows how, but he didn’t count on his feelings of remorse turning into something much deeper.





	God's Never in France, This Time of Year

**Author's Note:**

> while this fic is tagged for dub-con and there is an attempted rape, the sex between Bucky and Tony is… both consensual and forced at the same time. It’s complicated. Please ask on [tumblr](https://tisfan.tumblr.com/) or in the notes if you want more details before deciding to read. 
> 
> Very loosely inspired by the 2002 Count of Monte Cristo movie (not the book, which is yet again different)
> 
> For MCU Kink Bingo, Square B1: Prisoner/Guard

Whoever said war was hell probably didn’t know much about war. Or hell.

Hell was where the guilty were supposed to go to be punished, and Bucky didn’t see any guilty people around here. Fellow soldiers on his side. Enemies on the other, who were just -- probably -- as confused and hurt and not happy to be here as his men were. Innocents, everywhere. Women and children, old men, and the injured.

The guilty people, the people who really ought to be in hell, who were making money from Bucky’s blood, those people were nowhere near a damn battlefield.

They knew nothing about muddy ditches and trenchfoot, nothing about how your pal could be talking to you one minute and blood and brains all over your shirt the next.

War wasn’t hell, but Bucky didn’t know what it was.

Not much further, today, though. The last recon reports put the bunker less than fifty yards away. Even with it raining bullets, they could probably make that push before sundown.

“You ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum didn’t have his battle helmet on, but he never did. Man was too damn attached to that ugly bowler. He probably should have gotten a reprimand, but the LT was dead two trenches ago, and nobody cared.

“No,” Bucky said. He checked his ammo. “Let’s do it anyway.”

“Right behind you,” Dum Dum said.

They crested the ridge easily enough, Hydra troops falling before them like grass. He should have known it was a trap, but it was hard to think clearly when you were dodging bullets and shells, when your men were dying around you, when all you really wanted was a cheese sandwich because it’d been weeks since you had a decent meal and at least a day since you had any meal at all.

With a sizzling pop, half of Bucky’s unit vanished. A burst of blue light, a quick sketch of the skeleton underneath, and they _fucking vanished._ That was Stark Tech, well in advance of anything that Bucky’s unit had. Stark was supposed to be on their side, he was supposed to be providing weapons for the Allies.

Bucky went to his knees in pain, not understanding. He… his gun slipped because… because he couldn’t hold it…

He stared down at where his left arm had been, not moments ago.

It wasn’t even bleeding. Agony raced up the stump and into his spine.

“You have one chance,” the heavily accented voice announced, “to surrender.”

What else could Bucky do, but spare as many of his men as possible? “Tell them,” he coughed. Dum Dum was still with him, but God only knew how many were dead. Just _gone_. How the hell was he supposed to report that? Would they count as KIA? Would their families ever know any peace? “We surrender. We surrender….”

***

Tony set the bottle of scotch on the desk and took the screwdriver from his pocket. Obie kept the desk locked, but it was a simple lock, yielding easily to a few easy twists of Tony’s wrist. If he could build weapons that dissolved men’s flesh in a flash of light while blind drunk, then he could do this.

Inside the desk, everything was neat and orderly, not at all like Tony’s workshop notes, which were strewn all over, a mess that made sense only to Tony’s erratic but brilliant mind. Obie wasn’t so brilliant, and his files would be kept in order by some plebeian system like date. Or customer.

Ever since reports had begun to trickle back from the field about Stark weapons in Hydra’s hands, he’d been trying to find out how that had happened. Their most devastating weapons were kept secure, and the military hadn’t reported any stolen or captured.

And yet, Hydra had them.

Tony had demanded that Obie follow it up, find out what had happened. The military was lying, of course -- Hydra had obviously captured a weapons depot somewhere -- but they didn’t know _where_.

But it had been Rhodey, sitting across from Tony in the pub with his hands wrapped around a glass and his dark skin gone ashen with prolonged shock, who’d said, “What if the generals aren’t lying, Tone? What if you’ve got a spy working for you, diverting weapons to Hydra?”

Tony hadn’t been able to sleep, those words echoing through his head, pounding even harder and louder than his impending hangover. And so here he was in Obie’s office, looking for the records of sale. He left that business to Obie, as a rule -- it bored him with its simplicity -- but Tony couldn’t wait for morning, couldn’t wait for Obie to help him comb the records for lies and telltale “slips” of accounting that would hide a spy’s tricks.

No, he needed to know _now_. He found the accounting log from the month before that first terrible battle where it had all begun to go wrong.

He ran his finger down the columns of numbers, frantically searching, desperately hoping he was wrong. But he wasn’t. There it was, in the middle of the twelfth page -- a bill of sale with numbers that made no sense at all, a shipment of routine ammunition right to the edge of the war zone and numbers far too large. Something was hidden in there. Frantic, Tony checked the accompanying log. Who had made this sale, so _patently_ fraudulent? Why hadn’t Obie noticed it in his monthly accounting?

...Because it was Obie who’d made the sale.

Tony sat back, hard, stunned. No. No, that couldn’t be right. It couldn’t. Obie was his partner, his _friend_. Obie was a loyal patriot, he would never--

The door to the office swung wide, and Tony looked up, tears blurring the edges of his vision.

“Tony,” Obie said, his voice heavy with regret. “You should have stuck to your drinking and debauchery.”

Behind Obie, ominously backlit by the light spilling in from the hall, were three soldiers.

Obie came into the office and plucked up the bottle of scotch from the desk, pouring himself a glass. “Officers,” he said slowly, “I’m afraid that Mr. Stark has been dealing weapons under the table to Hydra.”

“What? No!” Tony said. “It’s-- It’s _you_ , you’re the one who--”

The guards ignored Tony’s protests, and quickly overpowered his ineffectual attempts to fight free. They bound his wrists and pushed him, still arguing, out of the house and into a carriage with barred windows. “Stop! Where are you taking me?”

For the first time one of them spoke, with a dark little chuckle. “You’re bound for the Chateau d’If.”

***

Bucky didn’t talk much to his fellow guards. Not usually. But this time, this time he had. This time… two weeks of cigarette rations and twenty dollars was all he could afford to trade, but he was going to be there for this.

He didn’t usually work the discipline shift. Some of the other men called him soft, but after a month in Hydra’s tender care, he didn’t have the stomach to watch other prisoners suffer. He knew what it was like to be strapped down and hurt, just for being born on the wrong side of some imaginary and arbitrary border.

Four weeks as a prisoner of war, another week in the hospital before the doctors decided he wasn’t going to die, and they turned him loose.

No job.

No home.

He was lucky -- lucky! -- he’d been told, that he didn’t face a court-martial for cowardice in the face of the enemy.

He’d gotten a job as a guard in one of the worst prisons in Europe, because he couldn’t afford to be picky. The pay was good and he could pretend his life had some meaning. Some purpose. But he didn’t relish the suffering. He didn’t think he ever could.

Rumlow said he wouldn’t last, but what choice did Bucky have.

Besides, when the prison started buzzing with rumors, _soft_ wasn’t anything like what Bucky felt.

Tony Stark was coming to join them. The man who’d taken everything from Bucky for an extra couple of dollars. Money the man couldn’t possibly spend, selling weapons on the sly to the enemy.

Tony Stark, alcoholic and whoremonger, who’d taken everything, who’d turned him into this one-armed freak, who’d stolen his life. Who, of everyone who entered the Chateau d’If and who would never leave it, _should be here_.

Besides, paying to be a part of the man’s torture, that should stop the rumors that Bucky was soft on the prisoners. That Bucky was _weak_.

Bucky wasn’t weak.

He was only waiting for a proper target for his rage. He put on his jacket, grabbed daggers, and his issued ordinance. He prefered knives for close work. Maybe Tony Stark would try to escape. Well, let him try. Let him think about overpowering a one-armed guard. Bucky looked forward to the prospect.

Tony.

_Tony Stark._

***

The trial had been a farce. Tony hadn’t been allowed to consult with a lawyer, to call witnesses or even speak on his own behalf. Obie had come with a log book -- a _different_ log book, something he’d obviously had prepared for this very purpose -- to prove that Tony had sold his most dangerous weapons to Hydra, several times over.

“I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long to figure it out,” Obie had said, voice thick. “But we all know just how clever he is, when he wants to be.”

Exactly once, Tony had tried to speak anyway, raising his voice over Obie’s. He’d been punched in the mouth for his trouble -- he couldn’t stop poking with his tongue at the tooth that had come loose. The judge hadn’t even reprimanded the guard for excessive violence, and that was when Tony fully understood the depths of his plight.

He didn’t resist when they led him from the courthouse -- again in the dead of night -- and took him to the docks, where a small boat waited to ferry them to the tiny island where the prison waited.

The man who waited for them at the prison’s dock was a tall man with silver-shot hair and broad shoulders. A whip was coiled at his belt. “Welcome, Mr. Stark,” he said as the prison guards hauled Tony bodily out of the boat. “Welcome to the Chateau d’If. I am the warden, Vanko. If you need anything, just ask for me.” He laughed unpleasantly.

Two guards caught Tony’s arms and dragged him through the narrow, damp halls. By the time he’d found his footing and was able to stumble along with them, Tony had lost track of the twists and turns of the place. In front of him, Vanko was unlocking a stout wooden door. It swung open, and Tony was all but thrown into the room.

It was a tiny cell, barely large enough for Tony to lie stretched out on the stone floor. The only light came from a tiny window, set well out of even the tallest man’s reach.

Tony expected to hear the door slamming behind him, but instead, Vanko pushed through the doorway as well, several masked guards behind him. “To welcome you aboard,” he said, lips curved in an insufferable smirk, “a little something special.” He took the whip from his belt and let it slither loose.

Tony pressed back against the far wall, shaking his head in mute denial.

“Hold him,” Vanko snapped, and two of the guards stepped forward to grab at Tony’s arms.

He fought them, but they were bigger, stronger. They pulled his arms so hard he thought they might rip free of their sockets, and a third guard stepped up behind him, so close that Tony could hear his breathing, feel the heat of him against his back. “Don’t,” Tony begged.

The guard laughed and showed Tony a knife. Tony tried to twist free, but the guards held him too tightly. The guard laughed again, and then slit Tony’s shirt up the back, ripping it free to bare his skin. “You deserve this,” the guard said, low and harsh in his ear. “For every bit of pain you caused my men.”

“It wasn’t me,” Tony gasped. “It wasn’t, I swear. It was Obie, Obie was the one who sold the weapons, not me! I’m innocent! _Innocent!_ ”

Vanko laughed at him, long and loud, covering Tony’s continued pleading. “Oh, I know, Mr. Stark,” he said, his voice a low purr. “Of course you’re innocent. That’s why you’re here. This is where they send the people who have the truth. The people who are a threat to those in power. You’re not here because you’re guilty, Mr. Stark. You’re here because someone else _is_.”

A soft whistle was all the warning Tony got before his back exploded with fire. The sound of the whip making contact with his skin reached him a moment later, and then another line of fire coursed down Tony’s back. “God, no! Stop!”

“You may pray if you like, Mr. Stark,” Vanko said. “God’s never in France this time of year.”

***

Bucky was a lot of things these days; half a man, cripple, full of rage and resentment. Reckless.

What he wasn’t was stupid.

Bucky had a gun, but only one hand. He couldn’t possibly win against two guards, and Vanko, although Bucky knew enough of that man to know he was no fighter, relying on the muscle of his guards and intimidation. If he was ever actually threatened, Vanko would squeal like a pig.

He didn’t have a choice. Not now.

His death wouldn’t avenge his men. The man guilty wouldn’t suffer. Bucky moved around the struggling guards, holding Stark as he slumped between them. Vanko was good with his whip, Bucky would give the man that much credit. The leather strap never came close to flicking the guards in their few, vulnerable areas.

Bucky was in front of Stark, staring at the man he had believed was the enemy. It was his penance, he decided, for letting hate take root in his heart. That he would have to bear witness, stoically, to someone else’s torture. Bucky didn’t even dare wince at the sound the whip made as it cut flesh, the ragged sobs that came from Stark’s throat. “Look at me,” he told Stark, not even knowing if the man could hear him. Not knowing if he could say anything with his eyes that Stark would understand.

The guards, they wouldn’t notice, and Vanko -- well, he was a brute. He couldn’t understand, even if he saw.

So Bucky let everything, everything show on his face. Half concealed by the mask, he could only express his sympathy, empathy, regret, compassion, through his eyes.

Stark looked at Bucky, and Stark’s own expression was ravaged with pain and grief. His eyes met Bucky’s for only an instant, and then the whip landed again and Stark thrashed in Rumlow’s and Rollins’ grip, and screamed.

Stark was slipping; it was possible to die from a beating. Blood loss. Shock. Trauma. “Look at me,” Bucky told him again. Keeping him _here_ , keeping him grounded. Bucky had borne his own beatings better, when he had something to concentrate on. Hate. Rage. One time something as simple and incongruous as a vine of lavender that had snaked over the wall and was in bloom. “Look at me!” Stark’s head jerked up again. His mouth was bleeding, he’d bitten his tongue, or his cheek. His eyes were wild with pain, fear, confusion.

Bucky was counting in his head, every time the lash landed. Vanko rarely went higher than twenty; his arm would hurt later. As long as Stark didn’t fight too hard. As long as he didn’t manage to put Vanko in danger, which Vanko would take _very personally_. Vanko had killed one man who managed to spit in his face, had beaten him so long and so hard that Vanko couldn’t raise his arm to so much as feed himself for more than week, beaten him until he was flaying a dead man.

Bucky tapped his hand over his chest, when Vanko got to sixteen lashes. Four more. Three. _You can do this._

Two.

One.

Bucky caught Stark, one armed, when Rumlow and Rollins let go.

***

“Rest a minute,” the guard said, and Tony felt himself being moved to a corner of the room, out of range of the door. There were no blankets, no bed, just a cold rock. The guard peeled the bits of his shirt off, moving him carefully as if to avoid any further pain, but there was no escaping it. His back was on fire. Tony wasn’t sure he knew so much pain existed. The guard bunched up the rags and put them under Tony’s head, like a pillow. “Lay on your stomach, if you can. I’ll be right back.” The man’s hand touched Tony’s wrist for a moment, a squeeze, and then he was gone.

The door clanged shut behind him.

Tony fought to think, but the pain was a constant scream that knocked every attempt at rational thought loose. Every breath hurt, every _heartbeat_ hurt.

Tony tried to roll onto his stomach. It took several attempts; even that much movement set his back screaming again, a flare of heat like someone had ignited a trail of gunpowder under his skin. At least he was alone, and there was no one there to hear his cries.

The guard had helped him. After telling Tony that he deserved it. Why? What had changed? Maybe it was some fresh cruelty.

Maybe he _did_ deserve this pain. He should have been more careful. Should have kept his hands on the books, no matter how tedious the chore. Should have found the error earlier. Maybe Tony wasn’t guilty of selling his weapons to Hydra, but he was certainly guilty of negligence.

A fresh wave of pain broke over him, and he choked out a sob. The worst... the worst was that, with Tony here, Obie would be able to continue to sell the weapons to the highest bidder, and Hydra would overrun them all.

The door opened again, and it was beyond Tony’s strength to try to scramble away. Where would he even go?

“Shhh, shhh,” the guard said. “It’s all right. I ain’t gonna hurt you anymore.” He put something down near Tony’s side and then practically collapsed onto the floor next to him. Graceless. A hand came down on Tony’s head, petting his sweat-damp hair like he was a puppy or something.

“Why?” Tony managed to croak out. He wasn’t entirely sure, himself, what he meant. Why help him? Why hurt him? Why the kind touch and soft words?

“I’ve got some time now,” the guard said. “Rumlow thinks I’m off strokin’ a hate-boner for your ass. He won’t think to look for me, here. And if he does, well, he can’t possibly believe I’d be this stupid.” He struggled a bit, swearing, wrenching at something on the side of his face, and Tony wasn’t sure if he hadn’t noticed before, or what, but the man only had one arm; the other was a stump, the sleeve of his guard leather hacked off and sealed with tar. “Damn buckle.” He worked it a bit longer and the mask fell away, held on by the one strap to reveal an unfairly beautiful face, like some sort of guardian angel. Storm grey eyes and a lush mouth, cleft chin and sharp cheekbones. “My name’s Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Tony repeated. His voice was hoarse from screaming. “Guess you know who I am.”

“Everyone knows who you are, Mr. Stark,” Bucky said. “Can you sit? I got a little tea an’ honey here, don’t want you to choke on it. An’... little bit of laudanum from my own kit.”

Tony got one hand under him and pushed up, clenching his teeth on the fresh whimper that tried to escape. “Why are you helping me?” Tony asked. “You said...” He eased carefully into a sitting position, wincing as he felt the cuts on his back pull open. “You said I deserved it.”

“You heard what you heard,” Bucky said. He opened a little stoppered bottle, then wedged the glass between his knees while struggling one handed with a bag. Poured a little into a cup. Recapped the bottle and filled the rest of the tin cup with tea from yet another container. He did it slowly, with some difficulty, but without even looking to Tony for help. “And then I heard what I heard. Vanko… he’s cruel. A brute. But he’s not stupid, or given to boasting for no reason. If he knows -- knows enough to taunt you with it -- that you’re innocent… than he knows more than I did. He wouldn’t say something like that if it wasn’t true. He knows _something_.” He nudged the doctored cup in Tony’s direction. “It’ll taste like shit, but it’ll help.”

Tony didn’t hesitate. He picked up the cup -- he needed both hands to keep it from spilling, his hands were shaking so much -- and gulped down the tea, weak and tepid and bitter from the laudanum. “Thank you,” he managed as he set the cup back down. “Are you... You were a soldier?”

“Sergeant James B. Barnes, sir, lately of the 107th Infantry,” Bucky said. He wiggled his stump weakly in Tony’s direction. “Caught th’ edge of one of those tesseract rifles. Most of the men in my unit, they weren’t that lucky.”

Tony felt dizzy, and he didn’t think it was all the laudanum’s fault. “My God,” he whispered.

“Ah-uh, you heard the Warden,” Bucky said, with a grin that seemed almost real, “God’s not in France this time of year. You’ll have to make do with me.”

“Shall I?” The pain seemed more distant now, very much present but... soft around the edges. Less distracting. Tony was able to study Bucky’s face, searching. “And will you create miracles for me, Sergeant Barnes?”

“Reckon I might,” Bucky said. “Turn ‘round, an’ let me see to these cuts. Whip cuts fester somethin’ fierce.” Bucky hissed in sympathy as he looked. “You’re gonna scar up some. Here. Bite on this. Even with th’ laudanum, this’ll sting a mite.”

Tony opened his mouth for the rag that Bucky laid across his teeth, and clenched his hands into fists against the raw sensation of Bucky dabbing at the cuts on his back. By the time it was done, Tony was shaking all over, sweating and shivering as tears ran down his face, and his throat hurt from another series of swallowed screams.

“Okay, okay,” Bucky said, and he had a blanket from that bag, oh, thank Christ, _something_ , at least, between Tony and the cold stones. “We’re all done for now. I know it hurts, I know, believe me. Been there. Hydra used t’ ask for volunteers. One of us on the post, or none of us would eat. An’ what did I need with food, couldn’t eat no ways. Look, you won’t see me for a few days, but I bring meals around, that’s most of my job. So, that’s me. When you get fed. An’ I’ll be watching over you. Promise. Gimme some time, I gotta work this. But I’m gonna take care of you.”

“I don’t have the best track record with knowing who to trust,” Tony said, “but I think I believe you.”

Bucky was nearly to the door when Tony said, “I have to make this right. Whatever the cost, I’ll pay it.”

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone,” Bucky said. He closed the door behind him, leaving Tony in darkness.

***

Bucky let his head sink into his one hand. What the utter _fuck_ was he even doing? This was stupid, this was none of his damn business, and why the fuck was he even trusting what Vanko said in a moment of hurting a prisoner?

His shock and sympathy had driven him through the first encounter with Stark, helping him with the whip cuts. For a long moment, looking into those brown eyes, so agonized, Bucky thought he was doing the right thing. But Tony had also looked _guilty_. Ashamed. Maybe he wasn’t the ringleader of the weapons’ sales, but he sure as hell felt responsible for _something_.

Bucky could lose his job just for wiping down those cuts, much less anything else.

Not like anyone would know. The prisoners were mostly shut in their cells. Oubliettes. Dark pits where people were thrown to be forgotten. At least Tony had a window. He could see sky. Of course, when it got to be winter, the chill would almost kill him. Even in high summer, like it was now, the castle was cold, bone cold.

Barnes counted off the plates, hard rolls, bucket of mealy porridge. Under his coat, he had a wax package of sliced apples. It wasn’t much, but he could give little niceties to the prisoners. Just a little. Two slices of apple once a week. A cup of wine, sometimes, for a celebration. Even in the prison, word reached back that a son had married, a grandchild was born. Vanko liked to tell the prisoners about it, sometimes, to reinforce what they couldn’t have. It was both a hateful kindness and a sweet cruelty, just the sort of thing that Vanko enjoyed.

When he got to Tony’s door, he split the hard bread -- mangled it, more like -- and poured a dose of the laudanum onto it. A folded slip of paper tucked under the apple slices. Plate, cup of water. Bucky knelt and pushed them in through the opening at the bottom of the door. “Stark, breakfast,” he said. And then, because Tony was new, “push your plate and cup back to the door when you’re done, or you won’t eat tomorrow.”

There was no sound for a moment, then a grunt, and the sound of the tin plate sliding across the floor. “Got it,” Tony rasped.

Bucky finished his rounds, went back to the barracks. He chewed his lip for a while, considering where to even begin. Finally, he pulled out a few pieces of foolscap, and a copy of _20,000 Leagues under the Sea_. This was going to take forever.

_Dear Steve_

He considered what he was going to say, and then he started reading, in little chunks, making notes on his paper whenever he found the words he needed.

Anyone looking at his letter was going to know it was code, but they wouldn’t know what kind of code. And it wasn’t the sort that could be easily cracked. Bucky had learned a few things from the spies adjacent to his unit. He grinned, remembering the Countess, Widow Natasha, and her shadow, Clint. He hoped they’d gotten out okay.

***

Tony felt almost too nauseated to eat the food, but he knew he’d regret it if he skipped it. He managed to sit up and pull the tray a little closer. The bread had already been ripped into pieces, which seemed odd. Tony picked it up and sniffed at it, and a wave of gratitude warmed him at the sickly-sweet scent of laudanum. Bucky was still taking care of him. He dipped the bread into the porridge to soften it and chewed on it carefully, mindful of his still-loose tooth and the sore spot where he’d bitten through his cheek.

The apple slices were something of a surprise; Tony wouldn’t have expected anything so fresh in this place. They weren’t moldy, and only a little brown from the air. He picked one up and then froze in shock. He was _absolutely_ certain that most prisoners did not get pieces of paper tucked into their trays. Hand shaking, he pulled it out and carefully unfolded it.

 _Destroy this. I’m working on a plan_.

It was barely legible. The juice from the apple had made the ink splotch and run, and on top of that, Bucky’s handwriting was worse than a four-year-old’s. Tony read it over and over, though, until he’d memorized every dip and whorl, every shaky line and uneven loop. Then he carefully tore it into pieces and stirred it into his porridge.

He ate slowly, but by the time he’d finished, the laudanum was taking off the edge of the pain again, and Tony sighed with relief. He scrupulously pushed his tray back by the edge of the door, and then lay down on the blanket to sleep off more of the pain.

The day passed in interminable boredom and pain. There was only so much time Tony could spend sleeping, and only so many times he could calculate the time from the angle of the sun by the window.

There was a bucket to piss in, but Tony wasn’t sure how often they emptied it. A bath seemed right out of the question, too. At least he had a blanket, which was something.

An hour before sundown, dinner arrived -- another hard roll and a scoop of stew that might have once been in the same room with some meat. Under that bowl was another scrap of paper.

_Sent a letter to a friend. Will update. Don’t let this be found._

Tony ate that one, too, choked down with what was probably a piece of turnip.

He had no reason to be tired, having spent most of the day sitting or sleeping, but when night fell, he slept.

The next day started out similarly -- Tony thought his wounds were beginning to heal, a little, but they were still painful as he reached for his breakfast -- but he was jolted out of a doze that afternoon by the sound of a key in the lock of his door.

Hopeful, he pushed himself upright, ready to see Bucky. His hopes were dashed when it proved to be another guard, with cold brown eyes over a grizzled face.

“Well, well, looks like you’ve got quite the cushy place,” the guard sneered. “Where’d you get that blanket, Stark?”

“Wove it out of dreams and wishes,” Tony shot back.

The guard snorted. “That’s all right, it’s good. I like ‘em with a little spirit. Makes breaking you more fun.”

Tony climbed to his feet. “Where’s Vanko?”

“Not here,” the guard sneered. He reached, and Tony dodged, but the guard was faster than he looked. He caught Tony by the hair and twisted his fist cruelly. “On your knees,” he said silkily, “and open that pretty mouth.”

“Oh, come on, Brock,” another voice said, suddenly. “We talked about this. Fair’s fair.” Bucky was leaning in the door, his stump resting against the doorframe. His other hand lingered close to the butt of his pistol, fingers twitching. “This one’s mine and I ain’t aimin’ to take your sloppy seconds.”

“Don’t see why you should have sole access,” the guard -- Brock? -- said. He didn’t loosen his grip on Tony’s hair at all. “You the one who gave him the blanket?”

“Hell yes,” Bucky said. “I got one arm an’ a bum knee, you think I wanna poke that on cold stone, you’re out of your damn mind. Let him up. He’s not for you. You got half the floor, I’m asking for _one_. The one that cost me my arm, and my men, and my livelihood. Don’t fight me on this, Brock. You won’t like it.”

Brock stared hard at Bucky for a long minute, then shoved hard at Tony, letting go just as he fell over so that a hank of his hair ripped out in Brock’s fist. “Have him, then,” Brock sneered. “He’s probably loose anyway from fucking half the damn country.”

“Ain’t gonna do it in front of you,” Bucky snapped. “Get out an’ leave me to it, then.”

Brock snorted and walked by, turning at the last second to aim a blow at Bucky’s head. For a man with only one arm, Bucky was damn fast. He grabbed Brock’s wrist, turned. Slammed the other guard into the wall, face-first, twisting the arm up between his shoulder blades. They struggled; Bucky couldn’t maintain a grip and do anything else at the same time, but he was far more powerfully built than Brock, with a longer reach. A knife came into play; Tony didn’t even know where it came from.

Bucky dropped to the floor so suddenly Tony thought he’d been hit, but he whirled, swept his leg out and knocked Brock down. A moment later, he had his thighs on either side of Brock’s neck, one arm pinned by stepping on it, the blade at Brock’s throat.

“Go ahead, try it again,” Bucky snarled. “Give you a matching scar if you want. Cut your throat, right here. Drink your blood, you think I got anything to lose, Rumlow? You think I give a rat’s ass what happens? This one is mine! You got that?”

“...Got it,” Brock rumbled. “You gonna let me up?”

Bucky leaped backward, got his feet under him and out of Brock’s grabbing range. The knife disappeared back into his clothing somewhere. Bucky watched, with cold, gunsteel blue eyes, until Rumlow slunk out of the cell like a dog with his tail between his legs.

A moment later, Bucky was at Tony’s side, his hand over Tony’s mouth. “Don’t say anything stupid,” he cautioned in a barely audible whisper.

Tony raised his eyebrows at Bucky; he wasn’t _stupid_. “He’ll be listening,” Tony breathed. “Say something he would say.”

“Yeah, I’m done romancing you,” Bucky said. “You’re almost more trouble than you’re worth, Stark. You give me somethin’, or I’ll call him back and you can take us both, bet you’d like that, huh?”

“No, don’t, I--” Tony cut himself off with a sharp, breathy whimper, as if his still-raw back had been shoved against the rough stone wall. He wondered how long Rumlow was likely to lurk in the hall. He looked up at Bucky. It wasn’t like it would be a hardship, really. If he’d met someone who looked like Bucky before this, he’d have been all over that.

And Bucky was going to help him. That deserved... something.

Tony met Bucky’s eyes, and very deliberately put his hand over the front of Bucky’s trousers.

Bucky’s eyes went huge and luminous, his mouth dropped open in shock. His fingers closed over Tony’s wrist and he shook his head back and forth frantically. But he didn’t push Tony away, and under his palm, Tony could feel _something_ going on down there. What he might have said, or done, was lost in the soft scrape of a pair of boots outside the door.

Rumlow was gathering _friends_. Witnesses. Bucky swallowed so hard that Tony could hear his throat working. _Shit_ , he mouthed, his lips shaping the words deliberately. _I’m sorry._

“Go on, then,” Bucky told him. “Pull it out. I know you know what to do.”

 _It’s okay,_ Tony shaped. He kept his eyes on Bucky’s as he fumbled at the fastenings of Bucky’s pants, trying to convey some sort of absolution for the guilt in Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky’s cock was thick and growing thicker, gorgeous in the dim light of the cell. Tony flicked his tongue over it lightly, tasting Bucky’s skin, breathing in that musky scent. This was no time for eager exploration, though. Tony opened his mouth and swallowed down as much of Bucky’s cock as he could, all at once, letting himself whine as Bucky hit the back of his throat.

Bucky made a noise, some animalistic cry. His fingers wrapped around the back of Tony’s neck, thumb caressing the spot right behind Tony’s ear. The voices in the hall broke into loud, cruel laughter and a hurried betting pool went around. Some betting for time it took before the one-armed cripple went off, some betting how long before Tony bit him. Money was changing hands, Jesus, fuck how many of them were out there?

Bucky licked his lip, spoke low enough to be lost in the hubbub outside. “Goin’ straight t’ hell,” he whispered. “Never meant-- didn’t want this… oh, God, _your mouth_ \--” Bucky hand slipped a little and his fingers were pressing against Tony’s throat, feeling himself push into Tony’s throat. “Oh, _god_.”

Tony made a low, satisfied hum, then forced himself to turn it into a broken whimper. Let them think Bucky was hurting him; he didn’t care. Tony could stay in this moment for hours, if it were possible.

Bucky’s hand was so gentle, his eyes so wide and desperate. Tony’s tongue curled against Bucky’s cock as Tony tried to show him that this was the opposite of what Rumlow had wanted.

Bucky kept touching him, his throat, up his jaw, one shaking finger brushing over Tony’s lips, stretched obscenely around Bucky’s dick. One thumb, under Tony’s eye, as if to wipe away tears that weren’t there. He caressed the side of Tony’s face, massaged the shell of his ear. Bucky made another obscene moan, spread his legs a little wide, bracing himself.

His arm pulled back and Bucky swung, his hand coming down with a harsh smack, against his own bare thigh, but their audience, listening, and maybe peering in through the food slot, probably couldn’t see. “Don’t jus’ take it, you little bastard,” Bucky said, ugly. Mean. “You think I wanna fuck a mud puddle? Put some effort into it, ‘f you know what’s good for ya.”

Two more cracks against his own thigh, and Bucky’s pale skin was raising up pink and pretty.

Tony put his hand over the spot, felt the heat radiating out of it, and made another pained noise. He curled his tongue again, trying to bring Bucky off faster, before one of them got it into their heads to crack the door and peek in. Tony looked up at Bucky and then closed his eyes and loosened his jaw as much as he could, letting Bucky fuck into his throat.

“God, I _can’t_ ,” Bucky whispered. “Not like… _oh, god_.” Bucky pulled back, his dick making an obscene little popping sound as he whipped it out of Tony’s mouth. He sank to his knees in front of Tony. “C’mon, give it to me.” His fingers scrambled for Tony’s fly, stripping him roughly out of his pants, tugging them around his thighs. “God, look at you.” Bucky’s eyes were huge. He nudged as Tony scooted backward until they were mostly in the corner, Bucky’s wide back blocking them from any peeking guards. Bucky kept his hand against the wall, gave them a little space, so Tony didn’t have to touch the cold stone with his wounds.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bucky said, and then he was nudging at Tony’s face with his jaw, mouth working until he coaxed Tony into a kiss. Bucky groaned then, at the taste of Tony’s mouth, although God knew it had to be awful. But Bucky was kissing him like it was the best thing he’d ever done, all open mouthed and greedy. He rocked himself against Tony’s skin, his spit-slicked cock a heavy weight against Tony’s thigh.  

Tony gave himself up to the kiss and pushed his own cock against Bucky’s, curling his hand around them both. The heat was incredible, their skin sliding together, and Tony let out a soft whine of need. “Please,” he whispered into Bucky’s mouth. “Please.”

Bucky sucked on Tony’s lower lip, pulling it into his mouth, running his tongue along the tender inside, then surged forward, rutting against Tony with eager strokes. He released Tony’s mouth and was breathing in his ear. “Gonna,” he told Tony, “an’ it’s gotta go on you, honey, I’m sorry, they gotta see you like that. I’m so sorry.” He pushed again, and it felt so _right_ , the way he shivered and jerked against Tony’s body. He rocked up, then his hand dropped to his own dick, and he aimed, painting Tony with his come, hot and wet and sticky.

Tony gave his cock another half-dozen pulls and then he was coming, too. He let it spurt up against his belly and chest, gasping hard with the effort not to groan in pleasure. He dropped his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder for a few panting breaths. “I know we had to,” he whispered, “but it wasn’t all for them. Don’t... don’t be too sorry.”

Bucky cupped the back of his neck again, kissed his forehead, then pulled away, leaving Tony stripped and used, on the floor. There was a scramble at the door while Bucky fastened his pants. “That… that was nothin’,” he said. “You need to be trained up right. Show some gratitude.”

He stomped out of the cell, slamming the door behind him. “What the hell are you all doin’? Can’t a man get a little privacy? Rollins, swear to Christ… get him a bucket of water, you think I wanna come back to that, later? Hells bells, think you fellas never had your good time boys ‘round here.” There was the sound of someone being kicked (Rollins, maybe) and more groans, the money changing hands as bets were settled.

Tony sagged in relief, and used a bloodstained rag from his shredded shirt to wipe up the worst of the mess. Maybe someday, he thought, they’d have the leisure -- and actual privacy -- to do that again, properly.

***

The next morning, Bucky slipped Tony a book, along with breakfast. No note, not today. But Rumlow knew how it went. The guards sometimes got fond, brought their personal favorites little gifts. A book, an orange. A sweet. Not much, but little things could make a huge difference. Marking his fella as his.

The whole damn floor had witnessed it; the first time Bucky had claimed a captive. His ears burned every time he passed one of his coworkers. He’d gained _their_ respect, at the cost of his own self-worth.

He circled back around to Tony’s cell after dinner and let himself in. Any other prison, they might not be able to get away with so much, but d’If was on an island, surrounded by water. Where the hell was a prisoner going to go, even if they managed to overpower a guard?

“I… uh…” Bucky fumbled with it and pulled out a small jar. He couldn’t open it himself, not without time, effort, and some of his adaption tools that he kept down in his bunk. “Brought you a jar of blueberry pie filling.”

He slid down to sit across from Tony and put the jar on the floor, pushing it toward him with his foot.

Tony cocked his head, studying Bucky for a moment, then glanced toward the door as he picked up the jar. “Thank you. That was nice. You know you don’t have to... do that.”

“Actually, I do,” Bucky said, pulling his knees up and wrapping his one arm around them. His stump strained to close the gap and he hissed as the muscles pulled. Few more months of being one armed, and he was gonna have a hell of a hunched back to go along with it. “Bringin’ you sweets an’ stuff, it’s… it’ll keep th’ others away. It’s stakin’ my claim.” He couldn’t look at Tony, so he stared at his knees instead.

“Ah. Well, by all means, then,” Tony said. Bucky could practically feel his eyes boring into the top of Bucky’s head. “Any progress?” he finally asked, very softly.

“Not yet,” Bucky said. “M’ friend, he gets sick real easy, an’ I don’t see him much, these days. But I got a plan. Should work, ‘cause ever’one’s gonna get what they want.”

“Which is what?”

“C’mere,” Bucky said, jerking his chin at the wall next to him. “Vanko’s scared. Some mucky-muck guy… Colonel Rhodes?” Tony jerked at the name. “You know him. He’s raisin’ hell. Investigating. Vanko’s put it off, but some inquiry wants t’ talk with you.”

Tony let out a shuddery breath. “Rhodey. God, I should have known Rhodey would come looking for me.”

“Well, you ain’t gonna live long enough for that,” Bucky confessed. “Vanko’s put it off, some lie about prison transfers, you slipped through the cracks, no one knows where you’re s’posed to be. Just where you ain’t. An’ no one comes here, too many political prisoners here. Vanko’ll try to throw him off, but if he gets persistent… well, there’s a sharp knife and a shallow ditch what won’t have your name on it.”

Tony grunted. “Rhodey’s going to be persistent,” he said, very certainly. “So... what’s the plan?”

“Gonna kill you myself,” Bucky said. He twisted his fingers around the runched up fabric of his trousers. He couldn’t help but give Tony a sly grin at that, like he was planning an epic prank. Which, in a way, he _was_.

Tony considered him. “How?”

“Raided th’ chemist,” he said. “Nembutal. Doc uses it for surgery. You take it, just after sunrise. I’ll come in, declare you dead at breakfast. Get a bodybag an’ take you out to th’ graveyard. Gotta wait til my friend writes me back. Need a damn boat to get you off this island. When you find th’ pills in your dinner, you know he’s come through for me.”

“Your friend knows you’re planning to smuggle a prisoner out?”

“Don’t you worry about Stevie, he’s solid,” Bucky told him. Slanted a look at Tony. “Are… you okay?”

“Healing a little slower than usual, but that’s probably to be expected,” Tony said. He glanced at Bucky, then looked back at the wall opposite them. “If you’re worried about yesterday, don’t.”

“I ain’t proud o’ what I done t’ you,” Bucky said. He tightened his gut, but his voice broke anyway. “Rumlow woulda been rough on you, but… ‘least you didn’t trust _him_. I ain’t… well, they… they won’t bother you no more. Rumlow’s th’ only one with enough power to try an’ force a claim, but he ain’t gonna admit that a one-armed crip kicked his ass.”

“I told you, it wasn’t all for them,” Tony said. “I’m grateful that you stepped in. And circumstances aside, I’m not sorry for what happened. Stop beating yourself up.”

“A’ight,” Bucky said. He couldn’t quite help himself, despite hating what he’d done, he’d also replayed it in his head so many times the memory was as crisp as a photograph. “You… you are so beautiful,” he told Tony, brushed his fingers down the side of Tony’s face. “I’ll be back, tomorrow.”

He shoved himself up, using the wall as a balance point.

Tony climbed to his feet as well, a little slower, wincing slightly as the healing wounds on his back pulled. “Hey, Bucky.”

“Yeah?” Bucky dragged his gaze up from the floor, witnessing Tony’s messy, filthy, torn clothing, the bruises on his chest, the healing whip cuts on his shoulders. Forcing himself to see all of it, everything that he’d been a part of and a party to.

Tony stepped close and put a hand on Bucky’s cheek. “You’re beautiful, too.” He tipped his head and slotted their mouths together in a kiss. It wasn’t deep and it wasn’t long; a few breaths, and Tony pulled away again, smiling slightly. “Thanks.”

“You’re… uh, you’re welcome.”

***

Time passed. Tony couldn’t help but count days, even if they didn’t really matter. Bucky brought him things, from time to time. A second blanket. A clean, if somewhat worn and ill fitting shirt to take the place of his tattered and bloody one. More books.

Let himself in one afternoon and they staged another bout of what passed for sex. Bucky pushed him to the floor that time and rutted against him. Pretending to fuck, even if they didn’t. During that, Bucky handed him a simple steel spoon with a wooden handle. Showed him how to twist and open it to reveal a wickedly sharp shank. “You use that, ‘f Rumlow comes for you. He may,” Bucky told him in urgent whispers while stropping against his ass. It wasn’t as painful now that all the whip cuts were, at least, closed, if still a little tender. Hard to remember he was supposed to hate it, the way Bucky moved over him, Bucky’s breath was warm in his ear.

“Not much longer. Steve’s waitin’ for suitable weather.”

Tony grunted a little and twisted his neck to glance up at his window. “What kind of weather are we waiting for?”

“Foggy, overcast,” Bucky told him. “We need t’ not be seen, or we’ll be shot.” Bucky pressed a kiss to the back of Tony’s neck, grunted, and shuddered.  

Tony whined a little, keeping up pretenses, but nodded. “Yeah. Makes sense. I’m... I’ll be ready.”

Rumlow didn’t come for him, but the next time Tony saw Bucky after that, Bucky was sporting a black eye and moving like his leg hurt him. He drew Tony up against him and they sat that way for a long time, Bucky absently petting Tony’s hair. “It’s okay,” he told Tony. “I’ve got you. Ain’t gonna let nobody hurt you. Promise.”

Which seemed like a more protective stance than a man would take, simply to get his revenge. But Tony didn’t know how to ask. He dipped the tail of his shirt in his cup of water and gently blotted around Bucky’s injured eye. “Not long now,” he promised.

Two days later, it was pouring water into Tony’s little window.

And a waxed packet showed up inside his bread.

The note, stuck to the bottom of his soup bowl said:

_Tomorrow. I will come for you. Promise. Don’t be scared._

Tony couldn’t sleep that night. He laid on his blanket-pallet with the wax packet of pills under his shirt, against his chest, and stared up into the darkness.

It was hard to tell when day actually broke, because the sky was unrelieved gray clouds and rain, still. Tony hoped it was foggy, too. But there was no way for him to be sure. Finally, it was light enough that he was sure the sun had risen.

 _Fog_ , he thought, and _Bucky_. He swallowed the pills, then hid the wax packet in one of his books like a bookmark. That done, he laid back down on his blankets and waited to die.

***

Bucky reported the death in the ward without any fanfare.

Vanko didn’t even ask if he was sure. Just slumped with relief at the news. “One problem solved, then,” Vanko said. Probably, he wouldn’t even have objected if they’d buried Stark, _knowing_ he was still alive. “Come on, then. Get ‘im out.”

“Sir?”

“You carry him,” Vanko said. “I’ll carry the shovel. You can’t dig like that.”

Bucky was muttering curses the whole way out, Tony, wrapped tenderly in his blanket and then zipped inside a bodybag, balanced limp and lifeless over his shoulder. How the hell was he so heavy? And what the fuck was he supposed to do about Vanko following him out, whistling cheerfully, that stupid bird of his on his shoulder?

“Come on, I don’t have all day,” Vanko said. Then he laughed, broken and ugly. “Don’t… actually, no, I do have all day. I have all the time in the world…”

The ground in the cemetery was wet, thick, clotted with mud. There weren’t really markers, just rows where the earth had sunk in a little.

“Here’s good,” Vanko said. Bucky almost dropped his precious cargo. Damn, Tony was heavy. Vanko practically threw the shovel at him, and digging one handed was not a chore Bucky wanted to do, ever again. Respect for the dead said six feet under, and Bucky was barely able to get two feet down before he wasn’t able to dig any longer.

“You’re worthless,” Vanko told him. He kicked and shoved at the body bag until Tony tumbled into the hole. Bucky grabbed the shovel again, to fill the hole, and Vanko actually whipped out his dick and pissed on the grave. It was all Bucky could do not to smack the warden in the face with the business end of the shovel. Vanko laughed at the disgusted expression that Bucky couldn’t keep off his face, and walked off, still laughing.

Bucky didn’t even fill the hole the rest of the way in; the ground was so muddy, he was afraid Tony would suffocate before he got back. He left the shovel at the graveside and went back to d’If to finish his rounds.

His very last rounds. Whatever happened after tonight, he was done here.

***

It was cold, and something was pressing on his limbs. Cold and wet. Tony could barely feel his fingers or toes, and why was it _so cold_?

He tried to wiggle his toes, but had no idea if he was successful. There was a noise, like... like rain. Very loud, very close. And a smell like... dirt.

He tried to lift an arm, and it moved only sluggishly. That was worrisome, and his eyes snapped open.

It was dark. It was dark and cold and wet, except for the warm spot by his mouth where his breath was reflected back at him by whatever was over his head. He moved his arm again, struggling, and his ribs hurt so much he gasped in pain. What... what had happened?

What could he remember?

He remembered the dark, and the stone floor under him, and... and the pills, and--

_Bucky!_

Tony tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Something was weighing him down. He dragged at his arm and his fingertips scraped against canvas. That’s what was over his head, some kind of cloth. He wriggled his arm up to his head and pushed, and then felt around -- there, a hole or a seam or... he _pushed_ , and his arm broke through into cold air and pounding rain.

He scrabbled at it, and his head emerged, and he gasped huge lungfuls of the brisk fall air.

Tony was lying in the mud, covered up to the chest with the stuff. No wonder it had been hard to move his legs and arms. He shoved at the mud on his chest with his free arm, and was able to clear enough of it to let himself sit up. He worked the other arm free -- he was in some kind of bag -- and started trying to scrape the mud off his legs.

Where was Bucky? Bucky had promised to come with him.

Christ, but his ribs hurt. He didn’t know what that was from. He hadn’t done anything to his ribs before taking the pills. Maybe he’d been injured when Bucky had brought him outside to be buried? He didn’t know.

A shape moved in the darkness, groaning in pain. Dimly backlit against the night, it was huge and misshapen. Tony ducked back down into the hole where he’d been nearly buried, hiding, watching. It stumbled forward, and then Tony heard a familiar voice cursing, chewing up the words like they were gristle.

Tony sat up again. “Bucky?” He kept his voice low, hoping Bucky would hear him over the patter of the rain.

“Tony--” the lump coughed out, then dragged in another breath. “Honey, you okay?” He managed to stumble forward again, threw something to the ground and Tony found himself looking into the dead and shattered face of Brock Rumlow. “Sorry I’m late.”

Oh, god. Tony scrambled out of the hole, graceless and frantic. “Are you all right?”

“Dunno,” Bucky said. He yanked the bag out of the hole, grabbed the shovel and started digging, making a whining little hitch every time he stamped the shovel into the mud. “Go get Stevie, I need ‘im. Go straight down the hill, if you look close, there’s a little switchback path. Beach. Boat. Tell him ‘end of the line.’”  

“Don’t be foolish,” Tony said. “I can dig faster than you. Let me dig, _you_ go get your friend.” He reached out for the shovel.

Bucky made a whining, frustrated noise. “I don’t dare leave him unburied. If they don’t know where we are, they’ll have to look, it’ll take ‘em longer. If you get seen…” Bucky whined again, leaned in and kissed him, hard. “I’ll come, fast as I can.” He handed over the shovel and jogged off into the darkness.

Tony applied himself to shoveling. It made his bruised ribs hurt even more, but Bucky was right about them needing to bury Rumlow. And since Tony’s grave was already mostly dug... Well. There was no way he was going six feet down, but they didn’t need six feet, really. And the mud would serve to pack itself in; no one would know that this grave was fresh by the time the rain had passed, not with the whole hillside being half-mud. Tony wondered, idly, how many other bodies were under this meadow.

Finally, the ditch was deep enough that he could roll Rumlow’s body into it. Christ, but the man was heavy. Tony glanced back toward the castle, but it was all dark, still. He shoveled mud on top of Rumlow. That was easier than digging it out had been.

“Bucky didn’t give me a passphrase, so I hope to hell you’re his friend, and not about to shoot me dead,” someone said, nearly scaring Tony to death. The man -- he looked like a kid, really, at least a good four inches shorter than Tony, and Tony was not a tall man -- had blond hair that practically glowed in the dim light. He was skinny and bow-legged, with a pointed chin and a stubborn expression. And another shovel. “Are we diggin’ up, or buryin’ down? I’m Steve.”

“Burying down,” Tony said. “I’m Tony.” He indicated the far end of the grave from where Tony was working, and Steve obligingly started pushing mud into it. “Bucky?”

“He’s got a head wound. Sam’s making him stay in the boat and treating him. Sam’s a doctor,” Steve told him. “Well, sort of. Field medic. Close enough, right? Let’s finish this up and get off this rock, before we’re all a permanent part of the architecture. Who’d you kill to end up here? Bucky wasn’t real specific, and there’s a limit to the words in a Jules Verne novel. I assumed Squid meant Hydra, but I’ll get the full story later.” It was a wonder the kid managed to keep talking, each shovel of dirt looked like it weighed more than he did, and he definitely had something going on with his lungs, because he coughed and wheezed between sentences. But he didn’t stop and the one time Tony opened his mouth to suggest he take a breath, Steve just glared at him while emptying two more shovelsful.

Eventually, Tony decided the best thing to do would be to shut up and finish the job as quickly as possible. “I’ll tell you the whole thing once we’re off this rock,” he promised, shoveling faster.

Finally, the job was done, or done enough. “Lead on,” Tony said, and followed Steve down the path -- the switchbacks were _very_ steep -- to a little cove in the side of the cliff, where a boat waited.

Oh, god, _freedom_. Tony could practically _taste_ it, as long as they didn’t get shot leaving the island...

The boat was a flimsy little rowboat, probably taken off a derelict French navy ship. It decidedly didn’t look seaworthy. Bucky was laying on one of the benches, making soft, pained noises while another man stitched up a bad cut right behind his ear. “Get us pushed out,” he told Steve. “I’ll finish this an’ then help row.” He held up one finger, tracing the wind, then -- “that way.”

Tony tucked his shovel under a bench and picked up the oar that Steve wasn’t holding, ready to row. “Hi, I’m Tony,” he told the medic. “You must be Sam.”

Steve shoved against the rock face until the boat drifted out a few feet, then sat down and started rowing. Tony tried to match his pace. It was harder than he’d have expected.

“Tony Stark,” Sam said. “Yeah, I knew this one was gonna get us in trouble.” He glared down at Bucky. “Shit, James, do you ever do a thing by half measures?”

“Ow!” Bucky complained. “You couldna tied th’ knot off before you got pissed?”

“I hate you.”

Bucky yanked himself to a seated position. “He was framed. He didn’t do it.”

“Oh, an’ just like that, we’re s’posed to be good?”

“No,” Tony said, before Bucky could argue more. “No, I don’t expect...” He took a breath. “The man who framed me is the one who sold the weapons to Hydra. I plan to see justice done, even if I have to take it into my own hands.”

“In for a penny, Sam,” Steve said, cheerfully.

“How do I let him talk me into this shit?” Sam threw his hands up. “Shove over, pipsqueak, you got the rhythm of my uncle when he’s drunk.” He about forcibly took the oar from Steve.

“That’s easy,” Bucky said, holding his hand to his head gingerly. “He talks, you listen. The question is _why do you let him talk you into this shit?_ ”

Steve made a thoughtful humming noise in his throat and beamed, a wide, brilliant smile, in Sam’s direction, which was as good as a declaration. “It's a good story,” Steve said.

“You an’ your stories gonna get us killed,” Sam complained.

“We’re gonna hole up with Nat for a while,” Steve informed them. “Until we see which way the wind blows.”

Bucky groaned. “Okay. Okay.” He toppled off the bench and crawled over to Tony, laid his head against Tony’s leg. “Wake me up when we get there.”

***

Bucky woke up in a soft bed, surrounded by white blankets and the feeling that his Ma had been calling him to breakfast and he was going to be late for church. He pushed up, the simple task completely awkward and lopsided because of his missing arm, and…

“Tony!” Bucky stared around wildly.

The door to the room opened, and Tony stuck his head through it. He’d cleaned up and shaved and looked almost entirely unlike the Tony that Bucky remembered. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?” He came into the room, shutting the door behind him, and sat on the side of the bed, brushing Bucky’s hair back from his face with gentle fingers.

Bucky reached for that too-soft hand that was touching him. Tony shouldn’t… he shouldn’t have to… not anymore. But when he laid his fingers on Tony’s wrist, Tony just twisted his hand, twining their fingers together. And Bucky couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it. He lay back, feeling Tony’s hand under his, watching that mobile, handsome face. “Where are we?”

He couldn’t remember much, just rain, mud, and a burden on his shoulder and the driving need to _get to Tony_. His head ached.

“We’re with your friend, Nat,” Tony said. “She’s been most gracious.” His features twisted into concern. “How much do you remember?”

“I… uh… buried you in the mud,” Bucky said, his face getting pale. “Vanko kicked you into the hole. He wouldn’t leave, I couldn’t even check on you. Went back up to d’If. Waited around ‘til Vanko went off to have dinner, grabbed your admittance paperwork. Proves you were signed in, an’ the sum t’ make sure you didn’t come out. Your death was worth a lot. Rumlow was waiting for me.” Bucky coughed a few times. “He… uh, thought I was tryin’ to break you out because I was… er. Fond.” That wasn’t really what Rumlow had said, but it wasn’t worth bringing Bucky's personal feelings into this whole mess. “We fought about it. Harder than I meant to. Had to break his neck, he wouldn’t let me _go_.”

Bucky shook his head. Everything after that was just dark and pain and trying to keep his promise, like a nightmare where the faster he tried to move, the more the mud sucked down his limbs.

“Hey,” Tony’s voice interrupted that dark slide of pain and terror. Tony’s hand tightened on Bucky’s. “It’s okay. We’re out.”

Bucky pulled his hand up, turned it, and touched his lips to Tony’s fingers. “We got out. Hard to believe you’re a free man, yeah?”

“Not completely free,” Tony said. “Not yet. Not until I’ve pried Obadiah Stane out of my company and seen him pay.” Tony smiled, then, and leaned down to kiss Bucky tenderly. “But we’re out of that place. Thanks to you.”

Bucky froze, Tony’s mouth soft on his. Panic, desire, relief, self-loathing, swirled in his brain and he wasn’t sure what to reach for. Tony didn’t have to-- he shouldn’t… but Tony was kissing him, and there was no audience to perform for, no one who needed to be placated. And surely, Tony had had enough time to leave, if that’s what he wanted, right? Right? Bucky drew in a shaky breath and let his mouth open, giving permission, as if Tony had ever needed it, wondering what he was supposed to do.

What he was supposed to want.

His hand flexed in Tony’s.

He knew what he _did_ want, but not how to reach for it. “Tony, you--”

“I swear to God,” Tony murmured, “if you try to tell me that I don’t really want you or that you’re sorry again, I am going to lose my mind.”

He detangled their fingers, reached up for Tony’s face, cupped the side of his cheek. “I should, an’ you _shouldn’t_. But I _ain’t_ sorry, Tony, I’m _not_. An’ if you do, if you want this… then I’m damn sure gonna take it.” He would take it and hold on with every bit of strength he had left, because damn it, he’d been given a chance, another chance and he never thought he would-- “Tony…”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Want… want you,” Bucky said. “Of your own, ‘cause you want it, too. I do… have since th’ minute you fell in my arm. You’re… worth all this.” Worth so much more than Bucky could ever give him, an old, torn up soldier with no prospects. Fuck. His eyes itched and burned, but he couldn’t stop looking at Tony, couldn’t stop himself from touching, running light fingers over Tony’s face, across his throat, and Tony wasn’t stopping him, wasn’t pulling back. Was just smiling at him, like Bucky was making him _happy_.

“Good, I’m glad,” Tony said. “Because I do want you. You’ve been so kind, so generous, so... With every reason to despise me, or be indifferent. You cared for me. And I don’t know why, but I couldn’t do anything but care for you as well.” He caught Bucky’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the palm, the fingertips, the wrist. “I want you.”

Bucky had tried, so hard, not to look, when he and Tony were putting on a show; allow Tony the privacy of his thoughts and emotions, even if he couldn’t allow anything else, but now, he was invited, welcomed, even, to look. See the flicker of want and certainty and desire chase each other across Tony’s mobile, handsome face. There was something so unutterably expressive about those wide, inky eyes, the twitch and play of that beautiful mouth. Bucky could have just watched him, contentedly, for the rest of his life.

Except that Tony was kissing his way up Bucky’s arm. As much as he used it, Bucky would have thought it would no longer be so sensitive, but it was. Each press of Tony’s mouth lit his nerve endings on fire, made him squirm and writhe and ache for it, like he needed Tony’s weight on him to hold him down.

It wasn’t until he sat up, trying to reach for Tony with his stump, that he realized he was undressed except for a thin pair of cotton smallpants, that his scars and all his old hurts were on display. He hadn’t allowed anyone to see him, not since the doctors released him, like this.

But then, he’d never expected that anyone would want to, either.

With a sudden burst of understanding, Bucky knew that Tony would never be disgusted by his scars, wouldn’t consider them disfiguring, any more than Bucky would reject Tony for _his_ scars. They had, without intention, been the cause, been party to, the other’s maiming, but also, the hand to draw them out of the darkness. They were bound together, whether they wanted it or not. Bucky, at least, wanted it desperately. Craved it. Needed it.

“Tony…” He chewed his lip, then, “love me. Please.”

Tony cupped Bucky’s face in his hands and leaned in for a kiss, slow and tender. “I do,” he said against Bucky’s lips, and dropped another light kiss just on the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “I will.” His mouth moved along Bucky’s jaw, tracing its line until Tony was nuzzling and nipping at the soft skin under Bucky’s ear, licking at the shell of it.

Tony’s hands moved over Bucky’s skin, careful of his injuries but leaving not an inch of him untouched. They caressed and teased and tweaked and petted, until Bucky was half-dizzy with the sensation. “So beautiful,” he said, breath tickling Bucky’s ear and throat as he mouthed his way downward.

Bucky found Tony’s mouth again, his hand anchored at the back of Tony’s neck. Delved into that silken space, licking at Tony’s lip, his teeth, tangling their tongues together. His breath raced in and out of his lungs, and he could feel Tony’s chest heaving, the way puffs of air darted over Bucky’s cheek. ‘You’re so…” Bucky didn’t even know. Perfect, wonderful, dizzying. A whole language full of words, books of poetry and odes of devotion, and Bucky couldn’t find a single word that fit, that expressed even half of what he felt. He tugged, light, until Tony crawled up onto the bed with him, until Tony’s weight was sprawled over Bucky’s thighs.

Shameless, he rubbed himself against Tony, drinking in the sensation. Yanked at Tony’s shirt until it was a tangle around his arms, then leaned up to lick and lip at the exposed, vulnerable belly.

Tony sat back on his heels and stripped off his shirt, dropping it carelessly over the side of the bed. His hands trailed down Bucky’s chest. “I want to touch every inch of you. Want to taste your skin, hear every sound you make, find all the places that make you wild.” Tony pinched lightly at Bucky’s nipples until he gasped and arched. “Just like that,” Tony purred. “I want you desperate for me.”

“I already am,” Bucky growled, rolling them over in the blankets until he was pinning Tony down. His balance was tricky, but he managed an awkward, tripod crawl, nuzzling at Tony’s skin, scraping his stubble across Tony’s chest. He fastened his mouth on Tony’s nipple, sucked it hard, then soothed it with his tongue until it was firm under his lips. “You’re wearin’ too much clothes,” he complained, Tony’s pants openings were a complicated placket of buttons. Not something a one-handed man could do with any grace. He was going to have to invest in pants with waistband tapes, if he and Tony were to involve themselves with any degree of frequency. Bucky chuckled. Like he was going to be able to keep his hand _off_ Tony, now that he was allowed.

Tony grinned up at him, a bright and happy smile, as if Bucky’s impatience were his entire goal. “Let me help with that.” He wriggled his hands between them and began unfastening his pants. It couldn’t be accident, how frequently his movements made the backs of his hands brush against Bucky’s groin, light touches that only served to increase the heat between them.

Tony leaned up to capture Bucky’s mouth again, licking into it with soft sounds of satisfaction and pleasure. “Want you...”

Bucky rolled onto his side, tucking himself up against Tony, his hand making a beeline for Tony’s groin. He slipped his fingers inside the opening to Tony’s pants, past his smallclothes. “You got it,” Bucky said. “All of me that you want, f’r so long as you want it.” He let his palm brush over Tony’s cock, light and teasing, a slow slide from crown to base. “I ain’t never wanted anyone s’much.”

Tony gasped and arched into the touch, his eyes wide and dark. “You’ve got me,” he promised. “Just...” He pulled away, just long enough to push the rest of his clothes off, and then he laid back beside Bucky, gloriously naked and bare to Bucky’s gaze and touch. He slid a hand down Bucky’s side and cupped Bucky’s hip. “How do you want me?”

Bucky could feel his cheeks and neck heating. Things that had been so easy, before, were not impossible, but he had to stop and consider, angles and balance and need and how likely he was to fall and squash Tony right into the bed. He started to speak, swallowed hard at the way his mouth flooded, just visualizing it, then, “If… you’re up, on your knees, facin’ the wall, you c’n hold us up, an’ I can still touch you.” He thought it might be easier, for a first time, with a clear field of view on his target, where he could put the strength and power of his thighs to good use.

He’d like to be able to see Tony’s face, to kiss him, watch his eyes, but he wasn’t sure he had the strength for it, now. Wanted their first time to be pleasurable and perfect, not a comedy of errors where Bucky lost his balance constantly and ended up eating the sheets.

Tony nodded and sat up, climbing onto his knees and shuffling across the sheets toward the wall. He planted one hand on the mattress and the other on the headboard, bracing, then threw a hot glance over his shoulder at Bucky. “Come on, soldier,” he teased. “Come and get me.”

That was too much. Bucky clapped his hand over his chest. “You’re gonna kill me before I even _touch_ you,” he mock-complained, swooning dramatically. “Didja--” He opened the bedside table’s drawer. “Oh, you _did_ talk to Nat, good.” He pulled out a little stoppered bottle of oil with a flourish. Not that Tony would have needed to do anything, really. Nat had a way about her, she could practically smell desire on a person. The unit had given her grief about it, until she set her mind to getting them all matched up and several couples had been blinking in astonishment by the end of the week.

He worked the cork out with his teeth. Without any delicacy whatsoever, he poured a teaspoon or so of oil between Tony’s cheeks before setting the bottle on the table again. _Don’t knock that over_ , he told himself firmly. Last thing they needed was a spot of slick on the floor, or the bed, to make things even trickier.

Bucky watched Tony wriggle as the lubricant dripped down, an offering and encouragement at the same time. He leaned against Tony’s back, hand tracing its way down his side to Tony’s hip. “You’re sure?” He gripped Tony’s asscheek, perfect, round, perky. Delicious. Bucky’d never seen an ass so pretty, not even on one of those ancient greek marbles. He traced the curve with one light finger, raising gooseflesh in his wake.

“Of course I’m sure,” Tony said. He pushed his ass back toward Bucky, wordlessly demanding. “Touch me, before I die.”

 _Pretty_ , Bucky thought, tracing the line of Tony’s crack down until he was just rubbing the very outside of Tony’s rim, circling, spreading the lube around. He had to drop onto his calves, kneeling there between Tony’s thighs, to get a good angle. Worked his thumb against the opening. Everything about Tony was gorgeous, the way his toes curled up, the long lines of his thighs, lightly dusted with hair, the swell of that glorious ass, and the way his spine curved like a swan’s neck. Even the scars weren’t ugly; peachy-pink and stark against his normal bronze skin. “You won’t die,” Bucky told him, still moving his fingers, one on either side of that furled opening. “I won’t let you.”

Tony pushed back into the touch with a soft whine. “In me,” he insisted, that demanding tone giving way to a hint of a plea. “Need you.”

It’d been a long damn time, and Bucky’s need was as urgent as Tony’s. He breached with one finger, tested the muscle. Cussed a little louder, perhaps, than he should in someone else’s home, when he had to pull back, get more slick. It took longer than he wanted, they were both panting frantically with need, whines and gasps sliding between them, before Tony was ready, before Bucky could be sure that he wouldn’t hurt Tony.

“I got you,” Bucky told him. He had to hold himself steady, knees spread wide for balance, before he got them lined up. Tony kept pushing back into him, too eager to wait, and then--

_Oh, god._

Bucky kept his thumb hooked in, a little extra squeeze, as he breached. An inch, until his ridge caught on Tony’s rim. Wiggled his thumb and tugged as Tony cried out, loud and unashamed. “There, there, honey, I… I got you,” Bucky murmured. He dropped his chin, watching, fascinated, as his dick disappeared into Tony’s body.

Tony let out a long, low moan. “Don’t stop,” he said when Bucky hesitated. “It’s good, it’s so... God, it’s good.”

Tony shivered around him, squeezing. Bucky slid in, a few more precious inches, into that heat and slick, that tight grip. Tugged one more time at the muscle before pulling his thumb free to circle the place where they were joined together. Tony’s body stretched to accommodate him, the skin puffy and red with wanting, overly sensitive. Each stroke of his fingers wrung another deep shudder out of Tony, until Bucky was all the way in, his thighs flush with Tony’s.

He almost didn’t dare move, it was so much, too much. Tony clenched again, and made some sound, some tiny, needy, desperate sound, and Bucky couldn’t stay still. He pulled back, almost all the way out. Gripped Tony’s hip for balance and yanked himself in again, gasping with relief at the welcoming clutch.

“Oh God,” Tony groaned. “It’s perfect, it’s even better than I thought it would be.” He squeezed down on Bucky again, and the muscles in his back and arms rolled as he shifted his grip. “I want it all, give it to me good,” he begged. “Harder.”

Bucky strained, reached forward to cover Tony’s hand with his own, used the extra balance to set a driving rhythm, steady, building in speed, thrusting up against Tony’s body with his thighs, flexing his hips. They slammed together with harsh cries. Bucky pressed his mouth against Tony’s neck, feeling the pulse under his lips. “Tony… god, Tony…”

“Yes, yes, that’s good, that’s perfect, that’s-- ah!” Tony’s whole body shuddered. “Bucky, please, please, I need...” He changed his grip on the headboard again, and moved his other hand to curl around his cock. “God, you feel so good, so...”

“So sweet,” Bucky said, nipping at Tony’s neck, licking at the skin there. “Here, I--” Bucky strained, nudging them a little, wanting to be deeper, wanting to reach all those places inside Tony that would make him scream. God, his spine was gorgeous, sinuous, flexible. Bucky’s hand was on Tony’s back, down his spine to the small, teasing and tickling at the skin there, and then he pushed, practically bending Tony in half like a hairpin, his face mashed into the pillows until he could turn, gasping.

The angle, that was so perfect, right there, a long, slick slide, and Bucky battered at Tony’s prostate, unrelenting, building it up. Bucky snarled, cursing at how good it felt, how much he wanted, needed, and angry with his awkward, lopsided self. He twisted, a little, got himself braced, and reached under Tony, joined his fingers with Tony’s along Tony’s length.

“I got you, I got… here, let me, want you t’ feel good, baby, want you t’ come ‘round me,” Bucky chanted, stroking Tony in time with his thrusts. He lost all sense of rhythm in the flex and pull of Tony’s body, only knew that Tony was still moaning underneath him, shuddering uncontrollably.

Tony’s moans got louder, and louder again, interspersed with cursing and pleading and encouragement, the whole time his voice growing more and more taut and breathless. He pressed back against Bucky even harder, fucking himself on Bucky’s dick, thrusting hard into their joined hands. It seemed like hours might have passed, or only moments, when his rhythm faltered, and then stuttered, and with a bitten-off curse, Tony spent himself, spilling over their hands and onto the bedsheets. His body clenched down on Bucky’s, almost too tight for Bucky to continue moving.

“Look at you,” Bucky groaned, “so gorgeous.” Tony’s body was shaking around him, growing lax and limp and spent, hot sweat beading on his back and Bucky couldn’t ask for anything better. Pushed himself into that heat again, taking everything Tony had to offer, giving everything of himself, until he clenched his jaw, practically fell onto Tony’s back, and let his pleasure overtake him. A white hot wind that swept over his entire body until he was crying out, muffled against Tony’s skin.

He didn’t know how long he rested there, cradled and supported by Tony’s body, but his arm was aching, his thighs were tight, by the time he recovered enough to slide back. Tony was still breathing hard, on his hands and knees, so it couldn’t have been too long.

Bucky collapsed onto the bed, pulling Tony down gently to cuddle against his side.

Tony curled into the curve of Bucky’s body, panting for breath and flexing the fingers of his hand as if they were stiff. “That was perfect,” he groaned happily.

Bucky lay there in a state of unspeakable bliss; sweat cooling on his body, breath slowly going steady and comfortable, the man at his side laying there as if he wanted to never move. Bucky had been to war, he was pretty sure that he’d been as close to hell as earth could offer.

He’d never been to heaven before, but he thought Tony, cradled in his arm, leg thrown over Bucky’s thighs, was as near it as he ever needed to be. He tipped his head and kissed Tony’s curls, damp with sweat and clinging to his face. “Best, ever,” he told Tony, very seriously.

***

Tony wondered, absently, how Obie could look in the mirror, then look at Nat, and not recognize a honeypot when he saw one. Did Obie really think that Natasha, Baroness Romanov, wanted him? That not only was she a weapons smuggler -- okay, Tony could believe that easily enough, the woman was a damned spy for the English and French governments, and she could probably sell ice cubes to penguins -- but that she was interested in conducting an affair.

With Obadiah Stane.

Just the thought made Tony shudder.

Of them, Steve was closest, tucked behind the secret wall, both because his testimony was most important, but also because the guy was partly deaf.

“Men,” Nat had said, with a toss of her flame-red hair, “are far more vulnerable when they’re naked than any woman could possibly be. He’ll talk. The trouble will be shutting him up again, after.”

“The problem,” Bucky had replied, pulling a face, “will be that he’s still naked, when we arrest him.”

“We will, of the kindness of our hearts, allow him a robe,” Tony had said. And indeed, he had taken care to arrange a “spare” robe in the room, artfully arranged over a chair as if it had been carelessly discarded there.

Tony was hiding in the dressing room, ready to step in if needed. It frustrated him to rely on others to achieve his justice, but even in the few days he’d known them, Steve and Sam and Nat had proven to be good friends -- to Bucky, even if they were still reserving some judgment for Tony. And this plan had, Tony thought, the greatest chance of success.

The fact that Bucky had forgotten to mention that his good buddy, his pal, the scrawny little kid, was Steve fucking Rogers, prize-winning war journalist with a nose for news, and an absolute inability to shut up when he was on the trail of a good lead, that certainly added weight to their side. Rogers’ integrity was legendary.

“She’s closing in for the kill,” Sam said. He was armed, in case things went really south; although Nat assured Tony she could defend herself perfectly well.

Steve glared, that pugnacious chin jutting out. “Shut up.” He mouthed, leaning back toward the wall.

“-- must have been so hard, working under Tony Stark, all those years,” Nat cooed. “Too smart, by far, to push him out entirely, you needed that brain. What are you going to do now, without him. Such a shame, what happened, dead in a prison riot. A terrible ending for the Stark Legacy.”

“An ignominious end,” Obie agreed. “We’ll soldier on without him, of course. I have his notes for the next several projects he was working on. It’s taking the team a little longer to piece things together, without his mind behind it, but we’ll get there in the end. I have faith. And their loyalty isn’t so... questionable.”

“Loyalty to you,” she said, “exactly where it should be. My employers are impressed with your willingness to aid the war efforts -- long term stability is so… tedious.” There was a splash of water, as if Nat had teasingly swept her hand across the bath’s surface, playful and coy.

“Watch the scotch, darling,” Obie said. Trust Obie to have his priorities lopsided, even in this. “Tony never understood that. Of course, he didn’t want to. He wanted to drink and gamble and whore his way through life, and still think of himself as some sort of hero for providing weapons to the front. But where was the money going to come from, if we stopped being able to sell the weapons, I ask you?”

“I imagine it would have run out rather quickly,” Natasha agreed. “His exploits were rather notorious. I prefer a man who understands the meaning of the word _discretion_.”

Even in the near darkness, Tony watched as Bucky flinched, a grim reminder that Tony's past was potentially an issue. He squeezed Bucky's fingers.

“I can assure you, I do.” Obie’s voice was a low purr, now. “I’ve had to, doing business the way that I do. You can assure your employers that their purchases are safe with me.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of _them_ , darling,” Natasha said, coy. “I was thinking of the tidy way you took care of Stark. So very precise.”

“He should’ve stuck to his booze and whores,” Obie rumbled. “I didn’t want to kill our golden goose, but I had no choice. He might have been the only man in the country who was capable of deciphering my coded ledgers.”

“The ledgers that catalogued your... indiscretions?” Natasha said, with a ridiculous, tinkling little laugh, the sound of an ingenue who thought she was being clever.

“Precisely, my dear,” Obie said. “He brought it on himself, really. If he hadn’t taken it into his head to put patriotism before pragmatism, then nothing would have changed.”

“It’s good to know that you’ll go to any length to protect your clients,” Natasha said. “Even Hydra.”

“Their money spends as well as any one else’s,” Obie said. “And better than some, as they’re not overly troubled by scruples. How are we supposed to get a good field test, if the Allies won’t put our weapons in the field. War crimes, ridiculous. It’s a simple matter of what you can get away with. But they’ll come back to us, to protect themselves. A few more of these terrible battles, and Stane Industry shielding will be ripe fruit for the picking. Could have used Tony’s help for that, but we’ll get there. Never fear.”

Next to him, Bucky’s hand was flexing, a low, almost inaudible snarl coming out of his throat. “ _Bastard_ , killing our men, t’--”

Tony slipped his hand into Bucky’s and squeezed. “You think they’ve heard enough? Can we blow it open and arrest him, now?”

“We all heard it,” Sam said, his hand on Steve’s shoulder. He leaned over and signaled the military police, three calm and quiet soldiers, gripping their weapons like Obie might not live out the rest of the day, either.

“Go on, honey,” Bucky told him. “It’s your show, you should get to pull the curtain.”

Tony took a breath, heart pounding in -- what? anticipation? -- and stepped out of his hiding spot and into the luxurious bathing chamber. “I must say your hospitality has been magnificent, Baroness,” he drawled, “but some of the guests leave a bit to be desired.” He looked right at Obie.

“It’s all right,” Natasha said, making no move to cover herself, even as the rest of the troops and witnesses filled in the space behind Tony. “He was just leaving. Don’t let it interfere with our dinner plans… search and recovery of certain… ledgers.”

Obie moved, slow, almost ponderously, raising his hands as if in surrender, but there was a certain glint in his eyes that Tony did not like, did not trust. Obie had always seemed so full of avuncular good cheer, it was hard to realize how much loathing that concealed. “Three soldiers and a whore-spy? Tony my boy, you should have known better than that. Always impatient, no sense of the long game.”

Obie smashed his glass against the side of the baths, grabbed hold of Nat’s long hair in one hand and practically bent her in half, holding the jagged edge to her throat. “Step back, now. Weapons on the floor.”

“Obie, you know you can’t--”

Obie tightened his hold on Natasha’s hair. “Do it!”

Natasha caught Tony’s eye. “Do as he says,” she said, and while her voice was tremulous with fear, her expression was calm.

Tony hesitated an instant longer, then stepped back, lifting his hands to show them empty. “Don’t hurt her,” he said.

“That’s your problem, boy,” Obie said. “You were always weak. Too caring. You have to be tough to make it in our industry. You have to--”

Obie never did say what Tony had to do, because at that moment, Natasha knocked the broken glass out of his hand. She grabbed his arm, set her leg, and flipped Obie right over her shoulder onto the floor knocking the wind out of him. The soldiers surrounded him immediately, their weapons ready to fire.

“You are under arrest!” snapped the front soldier.

Steve Rogers, looking every bit the newshound that he was, came out from behind the screen, brushing non-existent wrinkles out of his shirt. “I don’t suppose,” he said, “you have a comment for our readers?”

What Obie said then… wasn’t fit to print.

***

Everything that Bucky owned could practically fit in his haversack. It had never been much, and after d’If, it was even less than that. Two extra shirts, aside from the one on his back, one extra pair of trousers. A second pair of boots. One pair of gloves, which Bucky kept meaning to throw out the left one and never quite getting around to it for some reason.

The transition of Tony Stark from war criminal to the return of the prodigal son hadn’t been painless, or smooth, but it was finally over. Tony was exonerated. Stane was slated for execution.

Bucky didn’t feel a pressing need to see it.

There would never be justice for his men, but there might be peace. Peace that wouldn’t last if Bucky dragged himself through the dark heart of hatred again. He would honor the dead, not lose himself for them.

Even with the evidence and testimony, there were still those who questioned the events; if Tony was truly innocent, they wondered, why had he been forced to scheme with a prison guard and execute a break out? That he had done so spoke of skills that were none-too-savoury.

Reporters and pundits had dug into Bucky’s past, pathetic as it was. Discharged. Someone had spoken off the record about cowardice in the face of the enemy, and Bucky had the horrific experience of being booed in the streets one time, just going down to the haberdashery.

Articles that wondered what Bucky was getting out of his place, at Tony’s side.

And then there were all the spurious commentary about Tony’s past. Lovers that gave tell-all interviews to the papers. Lovers that showed up at the goddamn door. In fact, one enterprising woman had actually crawled in through a window, and hadn’t Bucky almost stabbed her for her trouble before Tony could stop him?

Yeah, that went over well, the next day in the papers. Like she hadn’t broken into the manor house, or anything, it was the one armed vet with the violent streak that everyone was up in arms about. Steve had written a think piece on that, which Bucky couldn’t decide whether or not it exacerbated the situation or not. _Yes, Steve, I saw the pun, it wasn’t funny._

It just got harder every time he had to start over. Steve had already offered him crash space, for a while, although he’d been pretty firm with his scowl and his “have you tried talking to Stark about this?”

Bucky stared around the room, one last time, sharp eyes trying to see if he’d forgotten anything important. He was leaving what was left of his heart behind, but that was all.

He sighed, hefted his haversack--

“Bucky?” Because of course he couldn’t slip away unnoticed. “You going somewhere?” Tony’s eyes darted around the room, came back to Bucky’s face.

“Mmmm, as you see,” Bucky said. Why couldn’t anything be easy? He was hurting and tired and he knew this was going to hurt Tony, but was it so much to ask that he didn’t have to bear witness to it? Tony didn’t need him, Tony would get over it. And the sooner Bucky was gone, the sooner Tony would have his life back.

But first, Tony had to stop blocking the doorway. “Are you... You’re _leaving_ ,” Tony said, breath catching on the word. He stared at Bucky with wide, liquid eyes. “Are you... Is it... _Why_?”

“You… you deserve better,” Bucky said. He didn’t want to say it, saying it just made it hurt more. _Cowardice in the face of the enemy._ “They’re already diggin’, how long’s it gonna be before someone from d’If makes a statement? Hmm? You’re already pushin’ back against my discharge, against… everything. What happens when they find out what happened there? Gonna think I’m holding something over you, that you’re afraid of me? How many times you gotta hear it, before you start believing that, too?” God knows, Bucky was already halfway to believing it.

“I’ve been ignoring the press my whole life, Bucky. I’m not going to believe that you’re holding something over me. I don’t care what anyone else says about us. d’If isn’t going to say a damned thing, not on the record -- they tortured a prisoner who’s been exonerated, they allowed an escape. They’re probably shaking in their shoes wondering when I’m going to spill on _them_.”

Bucky was already shaking in his shoes. “There’s no… there’s no place for me, here,” Bucky said. “Fancy dinner parties an’ press conferences, an’ a damn chimney piece that costs more than my folks’ old house. All I know how to do, all I know how to be, is a soldier, an’ I can’t even do that, anymore. I got nothing for you, Tony. I can’t… just stand at your side like a deertick. That ain’t me.”

“That’s... that’s probably fair,” Tony admitted. “I was trying to give you everything, but I can’t give you that sense of having earned your place, can I? But you don’t... you don’t have to leave me, to find work. Do you? Or... do you not _want_ to stay?” His expression went tight and shuttered at that, locking down his emotions.

“I don’t even know,” Bucky confessed. “Ain’t planned that far ahead. Just… feel like I’m draggin’ you down. You deserve t’ be able to fly, and I don’t want to be the thing holding you back. You don’t need me.”

“Bucky.” Two steps brought Tony to stand directly in front of him. “Of course I need you. You’re not dragging me down, you’re lifting me up! I’ve never worked so well as when I know I’ve got you waiting for me! I _love_ you.”

Bucky took a step backward, completely off balance and breathless. His knees hit the side of the bed and he practically sagged down onto it. “What?” He didn’t even know if he actually said it or not. “You _what_?”

“I love you,” Tony said again. He came and stood between Bucky’s knees, brushing the hair from Bucky’s face with one gentle hand. “Didn’t you know?”

Numbly, Bucky shook his head. He hadn’t. He’d never _asked_ , either, so maybe it was his own fault. He’d certainly never told Tony; he was the one who was supplicant here, he didn’t want to put Tony under any other obligation, even if it was just mouthing pleasantries. “I… okay… that… uh, that might be a factor, in decision-making.” He stared up at the man, caught in the beauty of those dark eyes. “This… means somethin’ to you?” He circled his hand around aimlessly, trying to indicate the space between them, and all the unspoken words in that space.

“Of course it means something!” Tony caught Bucky’s hand and pressed it to his chest. “You _saved_ me, Bucky. Not just from the prison, but from myself. From my hate and despair and disgust... I wouldn’t be standing here if it weren’t for you. And you had no reason to even treat me kindly. You’re so beautiful, your soul as much as your face... I love you so much.” He bit his lip. “Please don’t leave. We’ll... we’ll figure out what you need, and-- just don’t leave me.”

“All I need is t’ be _necessary_ ,” Bucky said, pulling Tony in until he was secure between Bucky’s knees, rested his head against Tony’s chest and listened to his heart beating like a panicked bird. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you, an’ I didn’t know.”

Tony wrapped his arms around Bucky, holding close. “I need you,” he whispered. “Every day. I love you and I need you. Always.”

Bucky had known war, and hell, and heaven. But when Tony put his arms around Bucky… he knew _home_.


End file.
